He Is Home

J. Paulette Forshey

He returns from the war to the same old homestead. Nothing has changed.
Momma still does her washing by hand; scrubbing, wringing, hanging out
on a line. Little brother does the chores now he used to do…
the milking, feeding the cows, helping Poppa with the team and the plowing.

He sees Sarah out feeding the chickens. A chuckle slips out as she fends
off the old red rooster. He thinks, "She handled that old bird just
as Momma would."

Slowly, ever so slowly, he makes for the house. What tales he'll be able
to tell at supper tonight. The sights and sounds of the big cities, here… and
over there. He'll tell Momma about machines that do the washing all by
themselves. He'll tell of store-bought milk and processed meats. White
eggs -- not brown -- line the shelves.

Poppa will be pleased with the ready-made cigarettes. Knowing Poppa, they'll
be saved for special occasions.

In the kitchen, Momma is first to see him. Her firstborn! She sent him
into the world a green man-child …and a man came back; always, in
her heart, still a small child. Her hands ache. She looks down, sees she
has been gripping the dishpan's edges ever so tightly.

Straightening, she tucks a loose strand of hair back in place. With the
back of her hand, she wipes tears from her face.

On the front porch and down its steps, she pauses on the last. He sees
her and, like her, he pauses, too. He tries to stand a little taller.

"Momma," he whispers. He knows she won't ask, only waiting 'til
he can tell. Both smile bravely.

Up the steps, into the house, a mother and son. She in faded calico. He
in military blue. Pants pressed smartly, one pant leg neatly folded and
pinned.